A review by michaelstearns
The Deer Park by Norman Mailer
1.0
A real teeth-gritter, this may be the longest 375-page novel I have ever read. And I am a Mailer fan.
The novel is initially somewhat interesting. It is set in a thinly disguised Palm Springs that is populated with characters out of early fifties Hollywood. These folks are coping with the fallout from House Un-American Activities hearings (most significantly a character who seems to be modeled on Elia Kazan); with having too much money and time and no real moral compass to guide them as they dispense with both; with the need to be in control of their publicity and image while indulging in the worst behaviors.
I suppose my biggest problem (among many) is that the characters never become more interesting. This despite frequently hopping from one bed to another, or engaging the services of a drunken high-end pimp, or selling out their integrity to Hollywood's schlock machine, or what-have-you. Somehow, despite all the ostensibly shocking goings on in the book, it only ever feels politely sordid. Yes, there may be dirty things taking place, but the novel remains at a sterile distance.
And that's because of a kind of overwriting Mailer commits. The characters' every consideration about any issue is exhaustively considered in a way that feels false because it is so overdeliberated. He may have been trying for some sort of verisimilitude with how we experience moral complication, but I don't know that I believe. Instead, I think he was trying to freight the tawdry material with a higher purpose, a philosophical dimension that he perhaps figured might elevate the novel. But at this stage in his career, he didn't have the chops to pull it off. (Indeed, even later he wobbled on those bits of his novels. The more "philosophical" passages of The Executioner's Song and Harlot's Ghost are the weakest, most embarrassing parts of those terrific books.)
Maybe he was forced into such contortions by the mores of the time. His first publisher canceled the novel in galleys, calling it "obscene," though from today's perspective it is very tame at best. Even from the perspective of ten years and Mailer's fourth novel, the reveling-in-obscenity An American Dream, this earlier book is weirdly prudish and judgmental.
Finally, as is abundantly clear from much of Mailer's work but is especially foregrounded by this book: He doesn't understand women whatsoever and is unable to see them outside of the sexual roles he wants them to play. The portrayal of women in this book is offensive, but because the book is such an overworked, dated mess, it's hard to care very much or for very long.
The novel is initially somewhat interesting. It is set in a thinly disguised Palm Springs that is populated with characters out of early fifties Hollywood. These folks are coping with the fallout from House Un-American Activities hearings (most significantly a character who seems to be modeled on Elia Kazan); with having too much money and time and no real moral compass to guide them as they dispense with both; with the need to be in control of their publicity and image while indulging in the worst behaviors.
I suppose my biggest problem (among many) is that the characters never become more interesting. This despite frequently hopping from one bed to another, or engaging the services of a drunken high-end pimp, or selling out their integrity to Hollywood's schlock machine, or what-have-you. Somehow, despite all the ostensibly shocking goings on in the book, it only ever feels politely sordid. Yes, there may be dirty things taking place, but the novel remains at a sterile distance.
And that's because of a kind of overwriting Mailer commits. The characters' every consideration about any issue is exhaustively considered in a way that feels false because it is so overdeliberated. He may have been trying for some sort of verisimilitude with how we experience moral complication, but I don't know that I believe. Instead, I think he was trying to freight the tawdry material with a higher purpose, a philosophical dimension that he perhaps figured might elevate the novel. But at this stage in his career, he didn't have the chops to pull it off. (Indeed, even later he wobbled on those bits of his novels. The more "philosophical" passages of The Executioner's Song and Harlot's Ghost are the weakest, most embarrassing parts of those terrific books.)
Maybe he was forced into such contortions by the mores of the time. His first publisher canceled the novel in galleys, calling it "obscene," though from today's perspective it is very tame at best. Even from the perspective of ten years and Mailer's fourth novel, the reveling-in-obscenity An American Dream, this earlier book is weirdly prudish and judgmental.
Finally, as is abundantly clear from much of Mailer's work but is especially foregrounded by this book: He doesn't understand women whatsoever and is unable to see them outside of the sexual roles he wants them to play. The portrayal of women in this book is offensive, but because the book is such an overworked, dated mess, it's hard to care very much or for very long.